


Zodiac

by brook456



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Demonic Possession, Gen, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, Spoilers - Journal 3, Tags May Change, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11758470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brook456/pseuds/brook456
Summary: In the weeks following the failed portal test, Stanford Pines must face the consequences of his deal with Bill Cipher. But he's not the only one to be affected by the demon's penchant for suffering...





	1. Things Best Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> Might as well get the first chapter up though I must warn you guys in advance that I have no idea when I'll finish this.
> 
> Special thanks as always to my lovely beta readers, who put up with so much.
> 
> Tags and warnings will be updated on the main page as I write, since I don't quite know where I'm going. Characters are currently listed in order of appearance. Please check the notes on each chapter for more specific warnings.
> 
> Additionally, I'll be throwing a full chapter summary at the bottom of each section if you don't feel quite up to the warnings on that part but still want to follow along. These will contain spoilers.
> 
> Archive Warnings: none really apply at the moment, but graphic violence and major character death may appear in the future, so I've left them unmarked for now
> 
> Chapter Warnings: general creepiness, mentions of animal cruelty, disorganized thinking, assault, injury, disassociation, flashbacks, religious doubt, threats of violence, violence, attempted murder

There was something about those woods at night, something terrible and dark. Something that warned of secrets in every shadow, that made one jump when the thin crescent of the moon winked suddenly through the trees, tall and black against the cold light of the stars. Turned each and every gnarled branch into an arm, brought a knowing glint to the eyes of the aspen trees. Not a breath of wind—and yet he could still feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling for reasons his conscious mind could not discern.

Fiddleford would not have walked here had he the choice, would have avoided this path even in the light of day, and yet here he was, rushing briskly along, glancing occasionally behind him, flinching at every twig that cracked underfoot. Only the crunch of his footsteps masked the chattering of his teeth, and he kept his head by counting them, one step after another. Half a mile, half to go. Only half a mile and he’d be…

Where exactly? A mile into these woods, a mile away from town? Perhaps he was lost—he must be lost, why else would he be wandering in the forest alone? And yet he was certain he was headed in the right direction, knew he’d be there in under ten minutes, less if he kept up his pace. Heading home, that was it, though why he would’ve made his home out in the middle of woods like these he couldn’t quite understand. Perhaps for the same reason he had moved from California? Privacy, maybe, or access to something important, though it seemed more and more terrible an idea each step he made away from town and into the towering trees.

Especially now with the—with what? It was becoming more difficult with each passing day to gather his thoughts—his mind would race, race until it found itself lost. Even what he did remember had a dreamlike quality to it—a pain to remember, to piece together the narrative, even the bits you wanted to keep. Or perhaps he had intended to lose those parts: there was no telling, no way to know what he had forgotten. But neither, he knew, was there a way to tell if he had lost something he wished to keep. Could he trust that he hadn’t? Yank out enough parts and the structure collapses—the basics of engineering.

But what was the alternative? With the wood growing up like this and the things in the bushes and the eyes in the trees? His pace had almost become a jog now and the crunch of his shoes against the gravel made his heart pound wildly in his chest—something out here, a monster, he was sure of it. A monster, that was it! How many people had come to forget? Talked of finding pools of blood and mutilated birds and small animals still breathing with each and every limb snapped to pieces? He shuddered, felt the bile rise in his throat. Something out here—dangerous, malicious. Killing, leaving gruesome tokens, making everyone lie uneasy in their beds. Something best left forgotten.

And then he had arrived, saw the cabin standing dark in the clearing, fenced round with curls of barbed wire and overgrown weeds. A crude sign was posted nearby—illegible in the darkness; there was no light save for the red blink of radio antenna and the catch of the moon against empty windows, looking for all the world like the winking of eyes.

This was…not right. An inexplicable dread washed over him—he could feel his stomach twist sharply with fear and his breath caught with a start. Something terrible—he remembered his family with sudden clarity, circled closer to the place calling—Tate? Tate?—but there was no answer, nothing but the pounding of his heart. Not home—no, not _home—_ surely his wife and son lived safe down in town and surely he had never seen this accursed place before? He was willing to swear on it, almost, if he could swear on anything anymore, but he wasn’t sure…no, he _couldn’t_ be sure.

The only thing he did know—and he knew it with certainty, clear as the light of day—was that he must leave. Better face that lonely road back through the woods than dare stick around here—his head might not know why but his body screamed run, all shiver and sweat and pain burning in his gut. He bolted, not daring to look back—he wouldn’t have to. For the way the place sat, triangular against the sky, blotting out the stars behind—it would have to be forgotten, or follow him into his dreams.

 

It wasn’t the only thing that followed.

 

He wasn’t quite sure what hit him—he wasn’t sure he had even _been_ hit until he found himself slipping his attacker’s grip and darting off into the woods, hands still smarting from scraping against the ground. Later, perhaps, he would recall the shape of a man—eyes shining gold in the thin light of the moon—and even later, perhaps, he would forget it; but there was no time then to wonder what had happened, even if he had had the capacity to do so. He was too distracted after all in getting away, was already knee deep in brambles he couldn’t remember leaping into—and why hadn’t he gone down the path? At this rate—what rate was it even? His legs a blur, moving, it seemed, of their own accord, he felt nothing of them but a shudder each time his feet struck the ground—at this rate he might have made the mile to town in minutes.

But he had no time to consider his regrets, no time even to wonder if whatever had grabbed him was still chasing him—the second it took to glance behind him was a second he might not have, and something animal in him was certain the thing was right on his heels. He wasn’t wrong either—if Fiddleford had had the awareness to think he might have heard the branches cracking closer and closer behind him, the ragged panting of breath, the thud of limbs against the forest floor, even above the noise of his own feet and the pounding of blood in his head.

And then it had him, had him by the coat—he felt himself nearly yanked off his feet and yet somehow managed to free himself again, slipped out of his jacket and was running again before he even registered what had happened, considered, perhaps, that he might have only snagged himself on a wayward branch, one of many whose scratches and stings he would only feel later. But tree or foe it didn’t matter, only that it had lost him some distance, some time—not that he really knew it, not yet.

No, even when he tripped, even when he was leapt upon once again, this time kicking and struggling to no avail, even then he did not have the presence of mind to understand. It was only when he heard the scrape of a voice that he even began to be aware of himself and where he was, face down in the dirt, all that terrible weight on top of him.

And then there was hot breath curling in his ear, words cracking between panting rasps—“I said, remember me, pal?” and the thing was right, there was something familiar in that tone, a low timbre beneath the huffs and gasps that made his head spin. _Remember_ …

He tried to turn his head to the side, crane his neck so he could peer up at his attacker out of the corner of his eye, but it took great effort, more than physical, effort against some animal desire to remain frozen.

It was…a man, perhaps. Yes, the shape of a man, leaning over him—why? Was he injured? He was suddenly aware that quills were sticking out of his arm, the bone broken, the pain almost enough that he couldn’t feel it—no, no, wrong! He was on the floor, cold stone beneath, and there was that voice again—“What is it? Is it working? What did you see?”

Well, what had he seen? Something…he could feel his throat constrict with fear, a deep-set paralysis take hold of him—something terrible, something that had set his hand to grabbing at the cross hung around his neck and which found it no more useful than any other piece of metal, some unholy form of which his brain could only comprehend a single amber eye…

But there were two eyes now, and the thing had him, had its claws digging into his back and a pair of jaws snapping down upon him, and he could do nothing to resist—heard it laughing, deep and terrible, heard it speaking—“Oh yes. Let’s finish what we started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: 
> 
> Fiddleford, confused by his use of the memory gun, ends up taking a night walk to the shack (at this point, Ford’s house) believing it to be his home. He is nervous the whole time, recalling bits an pieces of reports of strange occurrences, including oddly injured animals. When he arrives, he finds the shack apparently empty, and calls for his son, before realizing that his home is actually back in town, and that he does not recognize this place at all. However, the house gives him a bad feeling, and he turns to leave.
> 
> Unfortunately, he is followed and attacked by what appears to be a man with yellow eyes. He manages to break free and escape into the woods, though he’s too nervous to properly think and ends up losing his coat. Eventually he trips and is caught again, though this time he’s pinned down. The situation and the strange familiarity of his attackers voice confuses him, and he recalls bits and pieces of other events, including the aftermath of both the gremoblin attack and the portal incident. He ends up conflating his experience in the nightmare realm with the current attack, noting however that where he saw one yellow eye, there are two.


	2. Screech and Drag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan Corduroy discovers something awful in the woods while Ford Pines struggles with the consequences of possession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is starting on the 21st for me so it might be a while before I get back to you, but I am a little over a chapter ahead at the moment so we'll see. 
> 
> Chapter Warnings: depictions of animal death, mutilated animals (not when they're alive), blood, injury (somewhat graphically described), disassociation, attempted cannibalism (does it count if you're possessed by a non human entity?), demonic possession, self-harm (again, is it self-harm if you're possessed?), disjointed thought
> 
> See endnotes for a full chapter summary (spoilers, ofc) if you're not sure about reading this chapter

A terrible cry, a wail rising from between the trees, a trembling pitch that built into a peak before dying away—like nothing he had heard before. And yet Dan Corduroy was considering going back to sleep when it sounded again, a resonance almost human, but not quite right.

The next howl sent him grasping for the axe he kept at the bedside—just in case of the occasional bears and goblins, or even more terrible, the dreaded hide-behind. He would not say he was scared now per se, but he knew these woods better than most, and he knew to be wary of the things within it. It would be unwise to be overly bold, especially considering recent events.

The cry rang out again, this time more a drawn out whine than anything, but he was distracted by the memory of a buck, whose body he had stumbled upon about a fortnight ago. The bones had already been picked clean—nothing out of the ordinary there—though he found bloody tufts of its fur spread farther afield than usual. Still, nothing too strange in that—it was only when he had come to check if the skull was salvageable that he had given pause. For every single tooth in the deer’s jaw was gone, pried out one by one from the bloody bits of rotting gum that still remained, and a quick scan of the ground nearby found them missing. There was a deliberateness in the act that could not be missed—he had to admit the sight of that empty mouth made him shiver, struck him with some unnamed terror, low and unexplained. So he did what he thought wisest—left the stag as it lay, simply turned and headed away—but he had never managed to shake that ill feeling, that horrible sense of unease.

The next shriek and he was outside, having slipped into his coat and boots and holding a flashlight in one hand. He kept the the handle of his axe gripped tight in the other, felt it digging into his palms, for he had decided he had to know what the damned thing was—kill it, even, if he could—it was too close to his home, too close to town, to be tolerated.

Or maybe it was nothing: the strange cry of some bird, a coyote with a peculiar voice. Even something more exotic, perhaps, but benign—some fey creature he hadn’t yet encountered. And yet he swore that the next howl broke off into laughter, broken, jagged, terrible laughter, before rising again into a blood-curdling scream. There was no way he could rest without first finding out what it was, monster or no, and he took to creeping towards the source of the noise, wincing as the shrieks rose to a feverish pitch.

Something big had been along this way—the beam of his torch revealed broken twigs and trampled bushes, and as he went along he spotted something moving up ahead, drew back his axe—

It was a long coat of indeterminate color, torn and snagged on the branch of a tree. He had already slung it over his shoulder before he realized with dawning horror what it might mean—someone out here, someone under attack. Oh it made a terrible bit of sense, explained perhaps the almost human timbre of the screams…?

He ran the rest of the way along the track, though he didn’t have very far to go—he could hear the wretched thing despite the fact that the screeching had given way to series of gurgles and whimpers, a broken keening sound almost more horrible than the rest.

And then his flashlight caught the glimmer of eyes, staring back at him from the bushes with what seemed almost a malicious consideration, glowing an evil gold, staring until they fell from his own and alighted onto the axe in his hand. There was a moment of stillness, a long moment—and then, with what sounded like a whine of discontent, the thing turned away, amber eyes winking out of sight.

He waited still until he could no longer hear it crashing through the undergrowth, then turned to inspect the bushes where the thing had lain. And then there it was, the worst, curled under blood and broken branches—a man.

Somehow he wasn’t dead, a fact that came as a surprise given what must have been a significant mauling—Dan could see the rapid rise and fall of his breath under the flashlight, shallow and silent, though aside from this the man lay completely still. He didn’t seem even to notice Dan—not unconscious, no, his eyes were open—but he stared off into nothing, pupils wide and dark.

It would be a risk to move him, since Dan couldn’t quite tell if his injuries were serious or merely particularly bloody—bites and scratches everywhere, though quite a few had failed even to break skin. Still, he suspected deeper wounds, given the look of the man—it was nothing less than that of a deer struck down by the side of the road, all broken limbs and terror.

But neither could he be left here—in the time it took for Dan to get to the phone in town it’d be too late. That thing was surely still out here and he doubted it had gone far—he couldn’t help but imagine it waiting just out of sight, watching them with its terrible yellow eyes. It would take a second chance if given, and if it didn’t, something else would.

He would have to be moved. Dan slid the axe into his belt and placed his flashlight in his mouth before lifting him out of the branches as gingerly as possible. The man was surprisingly light for his length, and remained completely motionless as Dan picked him up, limp as a rag—he really might as well have been unconscious, for all practical means.

By the time Dan got him back to the cabin however, he was truly out, fainted from exhaustion, or more worrisome, from blood loss. Certainly a lot of the stuff had ended up seeping onto Dan’s arms—he could feel it soaking warm and wet against his skin. But it was not so much as he had seen a man lose before, and he doubted it was enough to be deadly. 

Under proper light however, the man was more of mess, though at least now a comprehensible one. He seemed somewhat familiar as well, thought Dan couldn’t quite place him. Perhaps he lived with the scientist up further in the woods? But no matter—Dan lay him gingerly down on the couch before heading to the cupboard for a first aid kit, but stopped for a second as he passed the front door, and, considering, slid in the deadbolt. He would not dare the trip to town now, even to get help—it suddenly seemed like a terrible idea to leave the man alone, even in the house—no, not until the break of day.

Dan returned with the first aid kit and leaned in to inspect the damage. Fortunately, most of the wounds seemed superficial rather than truly serious—whatever had grabbed him seemed to have concentrated its attack on the back rather than going for the kill, though it had completely shredded up his shirt and quite a bit of the skin underneath. Shallow scratches, for the most part, though there were a few particularly nasty looking bites, especially one on the right arm, which looked to be the source of much of the blood. Whatever it was had clearly decided to start eating him, though it had only gotten in a mouthful or so—it must have thought the man was dead, with him lying still as he was.

But something didn’t sit quite right with this, Dan thought, as went about cleaning the wounds. The screaming for one thing—any animal would keep up its attack as long as its prey was still making noise, would have torn out the throat before settling in to feed. And the alternative, that _it_ was the source of those terrible shrieks, made as little sense—anything that was making that much sound was certainly not focused on its meal.

He shrugged these thoughts off, and moved on to bandaging the man up—fortunately most of his injuries had stopped bleeding, though with bites it was better enough that they had in the first place. It helped clean them out a little, and there was nothing worse than getting a wound like that infected.

Dan finished up by applying a bit of iodine to the various scrapes and scratches down the man’s legs, clearly gotten from running through so many broken branches. Though there did seem to be a good deal of blood here as well—still, leg wounds tended to bleed, and Dan could find no major injury after checking under every tear. So he packed up the kit, threw a blanket over the man—and spent the rest of the night staring at the door, axe in hand.

 

 

Pain. Terrible pain. It was the first thing Stanford noticed, every muscle burning, every part of his body aching deep and terrible. Once he would have called it unimaginable. But this wasn’t the first time.

He opened his good eye slowly, left the other one, stinging, shut—he could feel the blood pooling beneath the lid, knew it would be of no use. But neither, he soon realized, was the other—it was far to dark for him to see either way. Dark yes, and a little cold—he realized with growing awareness that he was somewhere out in the woods, flopped down into the black dirt. Not in the least bit surprising. 

And now he could taste the blood in his mouth. His, perhaps, but there was no way to be sure. Certainly it was possible—his lip was worried to pieces, and there must have been an open wound or two burning over the ache of his body, scored by his teeth or chewed in hindsight.

But the alternative was just as plausible—animal blood. Deer. It had happened before—too many times now, and it was getting more frequent—he was losing control. How long had he been out this time? And only a couple of days between…harder and harder to stay awake, easier to sleep longer and longer. Even now, twisted down in the branches, every nerve screaming, he could feel a heaviness overtake him, the overpowering urge to close his eye and drift away, just lie here and put everything aside for just a moment…

No! He snapped both eyes open this time, but it was too late—his teeth were clamped around his wrist now, and he was a meter or so away from his previous position. He spat his hand out with distaste, though it was more letting it slip from his jaws than any actual effort—fortunately the skin hadn't been broken, not that it mattered anymore. Injured or no—he just had to live long enough to hide his work, and then he could finally rest…

He stood up—or tried—his legs buckled under his weight, too exhausted to hold him. How stupid to expect that he could do anything but crawl, like some sort of animal. Look at what he’d become.

Or maybe this was just what he always had been. He reached one arm forward, wincing, and dragged himself across the ground. No idea where he was going, of course, but with any luck he would find a familiar landmark, and he couldn’t stay still and bleeding on the ground if he didn’t want to become food for a bear. Though chances were a bear would knock him out and then…?

Another hand forward, another couple of inches gained. He hated the helplessness of the situation, the impossibility of his task, but as long as he could do _something_ , put one paw forward, he could keep going. Reach. Drag. Reach. Drag. A simple mantra, the only thing his tired mind could hold. Reach, and…can’t sleep. Can’t sleep, hide the journals… _trust no one_. Drag.

There was a light glimmering through the trees to his left, and he changed trajectory to see what it was. But it took a long and torturous crawl through the bushes, with the pain and the sweat and the ever present haze of sleep. He swore he saw the aspens blinking, but he hadn’t the energy to turn and see, and if they were, what could he do? Swear, but his lungs burned and his throat was shredded. No, just reach again—and drag.

He could make it out now—a cabin, familiar. Belonged to the lumberjack, what was his name? Something like…Stan. Couldn’t be, no, he’d remember if it was, didn’t want to think of it. It was…Dan. Dan Corduroy—a good man, built his house. Let him stay in the haunted cottage. Perhaps he could help now, give him somewhere to stay for the night, or—no, no! Trust no one!

How could he forget that—how could he forget? He was tired and his mind was failing him, couldn’t even think straight, couldn’t even trust himself anymore. Problems that had once been easy he could no longer grasp, his thoughts came out garbled on the pages and the words he read became mere jumbles of letters swimming before his eyes. And all he was left with was a sense of terror, terror of not knowing where he had once been so sure. He couldn’t think. He had to… _think_.

Dan’s cabin. Not Stan, only Dan. Lights on—this late at night? Or maybe it wasn’t late at all—Ford had no sense of time. But when didn’t matter, just where, and where was here, and here was—Ah! There was a dirt road that led here, branched off the road to his own house—he could follow it along, even if he had to crawl the entire way. Reach, drag—easy enough. Reach…and drag.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: 
> 
> Dan Corduroy is awoken by an unfamiliar and terrible shrieking noise in the woods near his house. He decides to investigate, but brings his axe with him just in case. After all, he remembers, strange things (stranger than usual of course) have been happening recently—he recalls finding a dead deer with all the teeth removed from its jaw. He follows the source of the noise and stumbles across a coat snagged on a tree, before encountering the creature itself, hidden in the bushes where he can only see its yellow eyes. However it spots the axe and leaves, but Dan, suspecting from the coat he found that someone may have been hurt, searches the area and finds an injured man, frozen in fear. He ends up taking carrying the man back to his house, though the man falls unconscious, and patches up his various injuries, which include a rather nasty looking bite on the right arm. All the while he wonders what possibly could have attacked him, and decides to wait until morning to take the man to the hospital.
> 
> Meanwhile Stanford wakes up in the woods in pain, mostly from Bill’s overuse of his muscles. He finds blood in his mouth and wonders whether he or an animal is the source, noting both possibilities are likely. He worries over the fact that he’s falling asleep more often and for longer periods of time—and is so exhausted he actually falls asleep again for a brief moment, waking up to find he is biting his own arm, but not worrying much about the injury, since his only concern for his health is living long enough to stop Bill. Instead he attempts to make his way home, only to find he is so exhausted that he can’t stand, and instead has to drag himself along the ground. He curses his helplessness but figures as long as he can do something, even if it’s dragging himself along, he must. Eventually he spots a light through the trees and pulls himself towards it, before recognizing it as Dan’s cabin. However, in his confusion he almost thinks the lumberjack’s name is Stan before correcting himself. He’s tempted to ask Dan for help, but realizes he has forgotten that he can no longer trust anyone due to his sleep deprived state. He becomes upset with himself for not being able to think straight, as well as being terrified that he no longer knows what to do. Eventually he figures out that he can simply follow the road from Dan’s house back towards his own, and begins to drag himself along it.


	3. Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford Pines finally rests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one, sorry, but considering its been a long time since I've updated, it's better than nothing.
> 
> As usual, summary in the end notes for those who are not feeling up to reading this section.
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include: emotional abuse, blood, animal death, and implied cannibalism, though none of these are super detailed

Stanford Pines had barely made it onto his porch when his body failed him, left him lying, sprawled face down on the wooden planks. He couldn’t move at all—tried to reach forward and found his arm merely twitched, his legs far too gone to even respond. Bill had run him to the ground.

He would’ve been anxious about this—was, in fact, for the briefest second, long enough for a sharp pang of fear to run through his broken body. But even his adrenaline did nothing, and it faded far too quickly into resignation. He was too tired to fight. He was too tired to fear what that meant.

Stanford Pines began to sleep.

He knew he was asleep when he smelled the wheat, more the idea of smell than smell at all. It grew in waves around him, amber waves that he could see without opening his eyes, and he stood up with no weight, glancing about the vast landscape of his mind. It was almost strange to him—for so long his rests had been dreamless, a relief perhaps, considering the things his body did in the night. Dreamless, for his spirit never remained in his sleeping form.

But now he was here, and he was not alone. There was no safety to be found even within his own skull, and the field began to burn with blue flame, a garish, alien color amidst the softer tones of his mind.

“Bill,” he snarled, as that familiar laugh echoed through his skull—a laugh that somehow carried the quality of nails scraping on chalkboard, and yet none of the sound.

The demon was right behind him—had suddenly appeared next to him, or more troubling, had simply been there all along. Ford swiveled around and instinctively stepped back, though it seemed the distance between them only shrunk.

It was strange, standing face to face with him once more. Ford had not truly lain eyes on Bill since his betrayal, merely felt the demons presence in aching wounds and mystery bloodstains and amber glimmers in strangers’ eyes. But Bill was here now, and that meant that he had chosen to let Ford sleep, chosen to speak with him instead of wearing his body. Unless…unless he too could not move the limbs of Stanford Pines. A demon, stuck facedown on the porch, unable to move, bound by the limits of the human body. The idea would have been laughable, had Ford been in the mood to laugh.

But it was still somewhat emboldening. If Ford could paralyze himself, tie himself down to rest—perhaps he could get somewhere.

“I’ll stop you,” he snarled.

If Bill was perturbed, he didn’t show it. His single eye was a crescent of amusement, and he propped two legs, folded over, on Stanford’s shoulder, and sat back in the air.

“Sixer, Sixer, Sixer,” said the demon. “I’m just trying to help you have fun.”

Ford growled and tried to shove Bill’s legs off of his shoulder, but he found the limbs leaden, immovable. The triangle laughed.

“You really should be more grateful! Don’t tell me last night was boring, Fordsy.”

Stanford was halfway through yelling a retort when he felt his spine turn to ice. Last night? He didn’t know what he’d done last night, and the fact that Bill was here to talk about it only could mean the worst.

The first time Ford had awoken with blood in his mouth, blood that was not his own, a fear had crept into him, a fear he did not dare give a name, lest he consider it. A possibility he tried to keep himself from even conceiving, but one he was far too clever to be ignorant of. The nearby corpse of a deer had saved him that time, and those of other animals the next, and he had manage to douse his worries to nothing but a mere simmer.

Now the idea rose up in flame, blue flame like that burning around him. Bill must have seen it in his mind, for he somehow smiled—smiled a wide and toothy grin, though he had no mouth save for the idea of fangs.

“I see why you like Specs so much,” said Bill. “He was so _fun_.”

“Cipher!” Ford howled. “What did you do?”

It was an automatic reaction—no sooner had those desperate words left him did he realize he did not wish to know the answer. The thought of anything happening to Fiddleford…he had already hurt the man so much. But he had to face the truth. He was Stanford Pines, after all, and he would not hide from any knowledge, no matter how terrible. He glared at Bill, his exhaustion rekindled into hatred.

The demon snapped his fingers, and placed the memory in Stanford’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stanford Pines is too exhausted to move, and falls asleep on his porch. He begins dreaming and meets Bill, who he realizes can't possess his body because it is too exhausted. Instead, Bill taunts Ford by offering to tell him what he has done while possessed, and Ford realizes it must have been something awful. He remembers occasionally waking up with blood in his mouth, and suspecting he may have eaten someone, though so far it's always turned out to be animal blood. As he thinks this, Bill mentions Fiddleford, and Ford demands to know what Bill has done to him. Bill, in response, forces Ford to remember his actions, which are not described here.


End file.
